


somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

by provocatelle



Series: forged in the crucible of your desire [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Modification, Butt Plugs, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Feminization, Forced Feminization, Genderswap, Hand Wavy Nemeton Magic, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Oral Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 15:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21181910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocatelle/pseuds/provocatelle
Summary: Deaton offers Chris Argent a solution. He takes it.He looks up, and, in the mirror, the illusion is flawless. Impeccable. With her white sweater obscuring the bump in her throat, her long dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, and her painted fingernails, she looks like a girl. Chris clasps his hands around her tiny waist and begins to move slowly, in and out, and just like that, the fantasy is complete. He looks like he's fucking his daughter. Her sweet little hole clenches around him."God," he hisses, tightening his grasp on her. "Your pussy is so fucking tight."He starts to thrust into her, and her full, kiss-bitten lips part. It looks so real.The ritual has to work.[Can be read as a standalone.]





	somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

**Author's Note:**

> as always, please heed the tags! this piece can be read as a standalone, but the first part is good fun. i had a good time writing it and hope you guys like it too. 
> 
> alternative title: alan deaton discovers a druid ritual that, when performed under the nemeton and by the light of the full moon, might just give chris argent everything he wants.
> 
> peace out, sinners

Chris and his daughter have their first real fight two months after they make love for the first time.

It starts small; a hankering for freedom, for something more. It begins when she sprawls belly-up on the floor of the library, and declares herself bored.

"Bored? You have at least four hundred books here, sweetheart." He encompasses them all in a sweeping gesture of his hand.

"I've read all of them. Twice."

Something twinges in his chest. His girl is precocious. After books, there isn't much to keep her entertained—Youtube and Netflix, perhaps, but even those lose their appeal after a while. French television is not that interesting, and it has the unfortunate side effect of teaching her a rather colloquial form of the language.

It isn't enough to mitigate the impending conflict.

"Then I will get you more books."

"What's the point?" she spits. "Can't fucking do anything with the knowledge anyway."

"Stéphanie, that is no way to talk to your daddy."

"I want to go back to school!" Stéphanie shouts. Her hands clench. He frowns; little girls shouldn't be aggressive.

It shouldn't surprise Chris that their first fight is about this. His daughter is too smart to be content staying home and reading books. He chose her, after all. He knew what he was signing up for.

This is how the argument goes. She throws a tantrum, and, when raging at him doesn't work, she turns to reason, then resorts to begging, pleading.

Eventually, with eyes are brimming over and lower lip trembling, she yells, "Fine, then at least let me get my GED!"

Chris surprises himself when he snarls, "No daughter of mine is going to get a GED."

Her shoulders slump, and the tears spill over and roll down her rosy cheeks.

He reaches out and clasps her shoulders, drawing her close. "I'll consider college," he finds himself saying. College is far enough away. It'll give him some time to figure something out.

"But you've probably fallen behind a bit, so it'll take some time to bring you up to speed. I better start interviewing tutors next week."

"You mean it?" Her voice wobbles precariously. He kisses her, firm and tender. It changed things, when she said she was willing to settle for a GED. GEDs are for unwanted girls, the girls who had no one to take care of them. Girls with no other options.

But it also means that Stéphanie isn't trying to leave him. It's about learning. An education. It also means that she's finally stopped fighting him. She's accepted their life together, because she's not trying to get out of it. She's trying to work with it.

"We should also get someone to help you brush up on your French," he says instead, nuzzling into her hair. The same ache he had felt on Allison's first day of elementary school flares up in his chest.

Ah, fatherhood.

The very next week, the tutors start coming. One by one they traipse into the house—all female, of course, and thoroughly vetted—armed with textbooks and maps and knowledge.

Stéphanie weeps with gratitude as he fucks her hot little mouth that night. His hand tangles in her hair and his breath shudders out of him. It's too good, that velvety heat wrapping around his cock, his little girl gagging beneath him over his length, the head of his dick hitting the back of her throat with every thrust. Her eyes are red-rimmed and mascara is streaking down her cheeks and her whole face is flushed. She looks debauched, and she's—oh god—she's touching herself too, even though she knows she's not allowed, he's going to have to punish her later, redden her skin so that she learns her lesson, and too soon he's spilling down her throat. She swallows every single drop.

She's still crying softly as he tucks her into bed.

#

He's still not happy about it. It eats at him, the weight of what he has promised. Eventually he'll have to make good on it. Eventually she'll leave him. College would open up so many opportunities for danger. Not to mention _boys_.

Chris isn't the first father to want to protect his little girl from the evils of the real world. He has her best interests at heart, even if she didn't believe it at first, but now that she does, he is loathe to undo all his hard work.

He just needs to figure something out, and soon.

#

The phone rings. Chris sets the newspaper down and picks it up. Across the dining table, Stéphanie swings her feet, curious. Her hair is up in pigtails today, and in her baby-blue babydoll dress, with her lips all glossed up, she looks positively edible.

"Yes?"

"Argent," Deaton says. "I've found something interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"You'll want to see this in person. Come back the night before the next full moon. Bring the girl with you."

He hangs up.

"Who is it, daddy?"

"Don't chew and talk at the same time, baby."

Stéphanie swallows her _croque monsieur_ and gives him an expectant look.

"I guess we're going back to Beacon Hills, honey."

#

A few weeks later, they refuel the Argent private jet. The Argents have been aristocratic for centuries, but the years of hunting with the nobility and dealing in weapons—and later, the global arms industry—are what have made them rich. Rich enough to own property on multiple continents, and to have the means to fly privately to each of them.

They touch down in Beacon Hills on an unseasonably cool autumn day. It's been seven months since Stiles Stilinski's disappearance. The MISSING posters plastered around town are started to look particularly faded and weather-worn. Chris keeps his daughter's head in his lap and out of sight throughout the drive to Deaton's animal clinic.

#

Deaton sweeps a hand to the leather-bound book spread out before them both. There is an image of a sacred tree, its dense root system painstakingly etched onto musty brown paper.

"The Nemeton," he breathes, his eyes glinting like obsidian stones, "has long been a symbol of life, death, and transformation. It's a sacred space to druids, marking the convergence of telluric currents. We call it our world tree."

They stand on opposite ends of the metal table. Deaton turns a page.

"Werewolves have a long tradition of trying to bend the Nemeton to their will." His voice deepen, takes on a grand, theatrical tone. All the noises outside the animal clinic suddenly seem to have disappeared. The whole world gone silent, except for him, and Deaton, and this book.

"It is a beacon for the supernatural, and the one in Beacon Hills has been attracting them like a magnet for centuries. But little is known about the full extent of its capacities. What it is drawn to, us druids believe, is actually power."

Chris feels the hair on his arms stand. There is a strange charge in the air, like things beyond human understanding are being invoked.

Deaton turns another page, and his eyes almost seem to glow. "This is the reason I called you."

Chris peers down at the images on the page, at how detailed and life-like they are, and the realization hits him like a ton of bricks.

Could this be...?

Chris swallows, hard. His voice is a rasp. "How does it work?"

Deaton nods, like he knew Chris would ask that. Like he knew just how to hook him.

"It's a druid ritual that must take place beneath the full moon. Usually, the Alpha and his mate will cover themselves in the tree's sap, and then couple among the roots of the Nemeton. But for you, we will have to take some precautions—silver, wolfsbane and mountain ash, to ensure you retain your humanity." Deaton moves aside, and Chris sees the bundles of little purple flowers behind him.

"I trust you will bring the former, Argent?" He emphasizes the meaning of the last name.

Chris nods, his mouth dry. His hands are tingling. He knows just the thing.

#

Chris briefly considers sedating Stéphanie that night. It would be so easy, to carry her placid, unprotesting body to the Nemeton, hold her down and fuck her into a girl. His girl.

But parenthood shouldn't be easy.

He ends up presenting it as a trade. Complete the druid ritual, convince the magic tree that he is the Alpha and she is his willing mate, and in exchange—college. Anywhere she wants.

"Anywhere?" she asks, suspicious. She twirls a lock of dark hair around her finger, blinking up at him. It's so precious, it makes his dick twitch. His heart aches just looking at her. She's wearing a white sweater over a little plaid skirt and knee-high boots today, and he just wants to eat her up.

"Anywhere," he says, generous with the truth. It doesn't matter if wherever she goes, she still belongs to him.

It doesn't matter when the alternative is nowhere.

"And I'll pay for all of it too. Nothing but the best, remember?" He nuzzles into her cheek, stroking his broad hands down her sides. He can feel her hesitating, weighing the two choices.

"But why?"

"Deaton says I'll always be able to know if you're safe," he lies smoothly. Because I'll know where you are. Because you'll never want to displease me.

"Which means you get to see your friends again," he purrs. "Not to mention no more waist-training. No more shots. No more pills."

Her fingers graze the velvet ribbon around her throat.

"No more choker too, if you like."

She ducks her head, blushing. "I like the choker," she mumbles. "Just wish it didn't hold the threat of Tasing me over my head."

"We'll get you a new one," he promises, magnanimous now that the end is in sight. His hands tighten around her waist.

"I don't want children," she says, throwing the statement down like a gauntlet. She rethinks her tone. "I want to be your only little girl, daddy."

He smiles at her, all teeth. So close he can almost taste it. "That's fine, baby."

"Okay," she agrees, finally. "Let's do it."

#

They have sex one last time before the ritual.

In the hotel, he bends her over the dressing table, flipping her little plaid skirt up. She spreads her thighs wider, and the plug sitting snugly in the valley of her ass winks at him. He pulls it out slowly, and she whines.

"Greedy little thing," he says, smiling. "Don't worry, baby. I'll just have to fill you up again."

He spreads her ass-cheeks to inspect the rosy little pucker of muscle. If the ritual works as planned, this will be the last time he uses this entrance on its own. The tight furl twitches teasingly under his scrutiny. He licks it, once.

She whines again, and he laughs.

He lubes his cock up, drizzles more over her hole, and, without any preparation, begins to slide in.

She gasps, nails scrabbling over the wood. "Daddy!"

He hushes her. "I want you to feel every inch of me, baby."

And she does. Every inch of his cock slipping further into her tight, hot channel is territory conquered. She trembles beneath him, breathing and relaxing the way she's been taught. She's so slippery inside. He groans, and in one smooth thrust, is fully seated inside her.

He looks up, and, in the mirror, the illusion is flawless. Impeccable. With her white sweater obscuring the bump in her throat, her long dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, and her painted fingernails, she looks like a girl. Chris clasps his hands around her tiny waist and begins to move slowly, in and out, and just like that, the fantasy is complete. He looks like he's fucking his daughter. Her sweet little hole clenches around him.

"God," he hisses, tightening his grasp on her. "Your pussy is so fucking tight."

He starts to thrust into her, and her full, kiss-bitten lips part. It looks so real.

The ritual has to work.

He reaches up to cup a puffy little breast, watching with fascination as the reflection in the mirror squeezes it. He rucks her skirt up, and those slender, creamy thighs start to tremble. He slips a hand under, and finds her little cocklet. It's small and vestigial, hanging limp after so long on estrogen. He rubs it, and she shivers, tightening up. They moan. Soon, he thinks, this will be an adorable little clit...

He cums so hard that he whites out.

#

When it's over, Chris unlatches the interlocking silver links from around her throat. The metal harness collars her neck and then pulls together between her cleavage, highlighting her delicate collarbones and the valley between her tits, which are rounder and fuller. The silver chains slither just under her breasts and wrap around her waist, coming full circle in a Y-bind down her spinal vertebrae.

She shivers as the chains whisper off her body. She's shaking like a leaf in his arms. White, sticky fluid drips down the inside of her thigh. The air smells faintly of ozone.

Chris unclasps the silver cuffs and shoves them into a large velvet bag. Wolfsbane is crushed underfoot as he picks her up effortlessly, carries her over to the car that is parked outside the preserve. Deaton is leaning against its side, and when he sees them approaching, he starts the engine.

"How is she?" Deaton asks, his voice a reverent hush.

"Fine." Chris strokes his daughter's hair, now much longer, from her face. His brave, precious girl. She'll never turn away from him again.

At the animal clinic, Chris peels the towel off her body and starts to wipe away the sap, dirt and semen.

As the detritus falls away, he starts to truly perceive the full effects of the transformation. She's always had fine features, but even if she had taken the estrogen for long enough, she would probably always have looked slightly masculine. Now, she is undeniably female. Her face has narrowed and her jaw, while still prominent, is much more delicate. Her lips are fuller and pinker, topped with an elegant but adorable button nose. Her thick eyelashes flutter, throwing shadows across the high cheekbones as she floats in and out of consciousness.

She's perfect.

Deaton insists on inspecting her, and Chris relents only because of how instrumental he's been to the entire miraculous situation. After all, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study the effects of a rare and magical transformation.

Still, he has to restrain himself from ripping Deaton's hands off when the emissary props her legs up and situates himself between them, and promptly goes slack-jawed at what he sees between her thighs.

Deaton is gripping her hard enough that her flesh is dimpling beneath his hands, and there's something hungry about his facial expression that Chris doesn't like. He feels something in him raise its hackles.

"Does anything need to be done?" he interrupts, brusque.

"No," Deaton murmurs, entranced. "She's perfect."

His hands start to creep up Stéphanie's creamy thighs, and Chris all but shoves him out of the way. He barely restrains himself from punching the man's lights out, and tells himself it's the magic making him act aggressive. Wolf-like.

Unclenching his fists, he asks, "How long do you think she'll take to recover?"

"With magic, it's always hard to say. Could be a week, could be a month. She might even feel fine tomorrow, but I'd recommend taking it slow and monitoring her situation. There's no telling how the magic will react with her mental or physical state."

Good enough. Chris politely but firmly excuses them, pulling an oversized sweater over her head to cover her, and then bundles her into the car without another word. On the way to the airport, he wires Deaton fifty thousand dollars.

#

Stéphanie wakes while they're somewhere over the Atlantic, crying for him. When he comes to sit beside her—moving the armrest up so that they can squeeze in together, she immediately crawls into his lap, where she fits perfectly. She's so tiny now. She clings to him, sniffling wetly.

"How do you feel, baby girl?" he murmurs. He hadn't noticed it in the clinic, but now he realises that she smells really, really good. She's always smelled nice before, but now she smells downright delicious.

"Fine," she hiccups, twining her arms around him. "A little sore." She aims for a smile, but it still looks a little watery. He chucks her under her chin, tells her how brave and special she is, and captures her mouth in a kiss.

Her lips part instantly beneath his, no resistance at all. She tastes salty with tears and a little sweet, clutching on to his shirt like she'll never let go.

"We'll be home soon, alright?"

"Home," she mumbles, dazed. She rubs her cheek against his, soft skin against stubble. "I want to go home."

He pats her until she dozes off again.

#

He carries her bridal-style across the threshold of the manor.

On her four-poster bed, he removes her clothing—somehow still smelling of sap and ozone—and sets about cladding her in a soft, cream-colored slip. The material matches the color of her skin, highlights how soft and radiant she looks. He runs a finger over her angular collarbones, the perfect little peaks of her breasts, down her flat, firm tummy, her hairless pubic mound. She's soft and pale and when he spreads her thighs, he can see how pink her slit is. Created just the way he wanted.

He is overcome with the fierce, wild urge to take her, to fill his daughter's sweet pussy. She's his, after all—but precisely because she's his, what's the harm in a little more waiting?

#

Chris wakes at the exact same moment he feels her stir in his arms. They're all synced-up, bound together like Deaton had said.

Stéphanie's eyes slit open, glaring at the strip of sunlight that has dared to invade the comfort of her four-poster bed.

"Good morning, little one."

He lies on his side, lazily stroking her abdomen over her ivory slip.

"'Morning, daddy." Her voice is raspy with sleep. She shifts closer so that she can bury her nose into his chest, inhaling deeply. "Smells good."

"How are you feeling, darling?"

She seems to ponder over this, cataloging the nuances of her new body. Her chest and hips look fuller, but he can tell she's registering how she's taking up less space than usual. She presses her hips into his. "I'm fine, I think."

"Any pain?"

"No pain, daddy." She sniffs the air. "But the house smells different. You smell different."

He smiles at her. That would be the magic, twisting reality so that he's exactly what she needs, and she's exactly what he wants. His girl, forever.

"How about I get my good girl breakfast in bed, hmm?"

"Oh, yes, please, but could I—could I—"

"Use your words, baby."

She's reddening beautifully. "Could I have your cock in me, daddy?"

Chris presses his thumb into the fullness of her lower lip, tilting her face up so that she has to look at him. "I'm afraid not right now, princess. I've got to take care of you until you're all healed up, okay?"

Stéphanie nods, still looking a little unhappy, and Chris beams at her. "Good girl. If you behave for me today, maybe I'll let you suck my cock before bed. How does that sound?"

His little love nods earnestly. "I'll be _very_ good, daddy," she assures him.

#

Chris can't believe how much he enjoys taking care of his daughter. She's unsure and coltish in her new body, and gets so anxious when he's not touching her, even more so when he's out of her sight. It's the Nemeton's magic, just as Deaton had said.

She demands to be fed, bathed, watered. A refusal to do anything by herself if he can do it for her. He indulges her in all of it.

"Daddy," she whines, flinging herself onto her bed, holding up her lovely lithe legs. "My ankles are dry."

He coos over her, kisses the ankle that's been raised to his eye-level—the skin there is slightly flaky—and grabs the almond lotion.

He loves to fuss over her, making sure she's comfortable and warm and entertained and well-fed. He wants her to be well-fucked too, but he wouldn't—not until they're in the clear. It'll be like the first time—he won't try anything until she's ready. He's not taking any risks with his daughter's new body.

She doesn't make it easy though. She never asks again, but he can tell from the way her hips twitch against his when they're hugging, the way her back arches when he touches her. She seems to spend the entire first week in a state of constant arousal. She pouts at him a little; he's not even sure she realizes she's doing it.

He likes to see her naked, to cup her full, perky tits and pat her pert rump. Her voice is higher, but rich with a certain throatiness. Her hands are so small and fingers are slender—an archer's fingers. (Not that he'll ever put a weapon in her hands. He's lovestruck, but he's not a fool.)

Every so often he'll come up behind her when she's wearing a skirt and lacy little panties. He loves to slip a hand under the skirt, run a proprietary hand up her leg and over the seam between her thighs. It's always slick. He spends the whole week half-hard.

He develops a preternatural sense for where she is, as if the entire house is his web and he's the big, hungry spider at its center. He reaches out with his senses and catalogs the different scents and sounds, and can almost always find her with unerring accuracy. Another thing Deaton was right about.

"Thanks for sleeping with me, daddy," she says, after his fourth consecutive night in her room. He reassures her that it's perfectly all right, and presses in for another kiss.

They hold hands as they roam the grounds and go for walks in the French garden. When they dine together, Chris keeps one hand resting firmly on her at all times, and his daughter drags her chair as close to his as possible, her mouth forming a little moue of frustration when they can't get close enough.

The first afternoon, she abandons her library altogether to sit at his feet in his study room, almost content to rest her brow against his knee as she reads. But Chris loves to indulge his baby darling, and it's not long before she spends her afternoons curled up in his lap, a finger tucked in her mouth, while he peers at his work over her shoulder and has to contend with an extremely limited range of motion.

It's wonderful.

#

The one and only time she tries to seduce him goes badly.

For her.

Chris should have seen the warning signs. It's been a little over a week since the transformation, and they're both a little frustrated. If Chris is being honest with himself, he's procrastinating a little. It's not nerves, he just... wants to heighten the anticipation.

But it's clear in the way she has been restless all morning, squirming in bed when he slid in between the covers to wake her up, pressing her thighs together. The way she had pulled him so close that their eyelashes were almost touching, their morning kisses just a touch more sensual and needy than usual. The way she had stretched too, languorous as a jungle cat—she had been presenting herself.

She dons something a little more unusual today too—a vintage two-piece playsuit made up of a halter top that ties behind her neck and back, and a high-waisted pair of shorts. He ghosts a hand over her exposed scapulas when he ties the halter top up for her, and she shivers at his touch.

It doesn't leave much to the imagination, he thinks idly as she pads downstairs for the breakfast that Mme Forgeron has whipped up.

Disaster strikes in the afternoon. They're in his study room. She's sitting in his lap, reading a magazine, but she keeps fidgeting. It's frankly a little annoying, because it's blocking his work, but then she leans all the way back until their cheeks are brushing each other and sighs.

"Yes, baby girl?" he asks, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. He places a hand on her waist and she whines, grinding down against him.

"Touch me, daddy."

"We discussed this, baby. None of that now."

"Nooo," she complains, rocking back against the cradle of his hips. His cock bumps up against the valley of her ass. "Please, daddy. I just want to feel good."

"And I'll make you feel good, after we wait."

"I want to feel good now. My cunt misses you."

"Baby!" He smacks her ass, but his traitorous other hand has climbed to her halter top to palm her breast. She moans, bucking into the touch. He can feel her desire; it's hard to separate from his own. He wonders if she can feel his too, if it reflects off them both and doubles, quadruples.

She turns around so that they're facing each other, and brings their mouths together in a clumsy, bruising kiss. Her tongue is hot and eager against his.

"Please, daddy. Feel how wet I am."

He can't help but obey, and his fingers come away wet—she's soaked through her shorts already.

"Baby. Are you not wearing panties?"

She whines, clinging to him and nodding guiltily. Her lipstick is smudged. "I've been so bad, daddy. Please put your cock in me."

"I didn't know I raised such a naughty little brat." He undoes the simple knot at the back of her neck and the two pieces of fabric loosen and flop down, exposing more of her chest. Now he can see just how far the the blush crawling up her neck extends. He yanks the halter top away, the cotton protesting slightly, and squeezes her breast, rough.

"Yes, daddy. I've been so naughty."

"You're such a slut for daddy, aren't you?"

High-pitched, desperate sounds are spoken into his mouth. "Yes, daddy. I'm a slut for you."

"You want my cock so bad, don't you?"

She's sobbing now, grinding down on him with no relief. He pinches her nipples until they harden, and then brings one of his mouth. "Yes, please. Please fuck me."

"I don't think I ever taught you to use such coarse language. You know what happens to vulgar little sluts, don't you? I'm going to have to punish you."

She nods vigorously. "Yes, daddy."

He picks her up without warning, strides out of the study room and into her bedroom, and tossing her onto her bed. He starts to unbuckle his belt. The sound of it seems to invoke some Pavlovian response in her—he's never seen her so alert. Her eyes are hungry and dark with desire, the pupils blown black. The ring of gold around them is barely visible.

"You're a bad girl. Take your clothes off."

She strips quickly, then kneels at the bed expectantly as he strokes himself slowly. His cock is rock-hard, the head flushed an angry red. Her gaze keeps darting back to it, jumping between his face and his dick.

"Greedy little cockslut. Turn around."

He folds her onto her side and pulls her flush against him, sliding his cock between her thighs. She gasps, hips stuttering back to meet his.

"Tighten up, baby," he growls, and she clenches her thighs, slick with her desire, and providing the most glorious friction for his cock. He starts to thrust between her folds, repositioning every now and then to get the angle just right, and she groans every time his cockhead brushes against her cunt.

"You want daddy's cock, baby?"

"Yes, daddy!" She's fidgeting, and it takes him a while to realise it's because she's trying to find a position that will get him to accidentally slip into her. His dick twitches. Naughty, wicked, wonderful girl.

He fists his hands in her hair and grasps her hips tight, stilling them.

"Naughty little cumslut," he croons, tightening his grip so that she cries out, arching her back. It makes her tits strain forward. "If you keep moving, daddy is going to have to tie you up. I told you I can't fuck you until we know you've recovered—"

"But I feel—"

"Ah-ah, no interruptions. I'm going to fuck your pretty little thighs now, so shut up and let daddy use you."

She nearly says "yes, daddy" again, but wisely keeps her lips sealed.

He grunts as he starts to rut between her thighs in earnest. Heat pools low in his belly, and his little girl starts to breathe a little more heavily, trembling with the effort to be good for him. Her tight little hole is producing even more slick.

"Such a pretty little mess for daddy," he praises.

She's going to be the death of him. His dick is so hard from days of abstinence, days of watching her flounce around him in short dresses and pout her glossy, cherry-red lips and gaze at him from under her lashes. Days of kissing him a little too long, rubbing her body up against his. The perfect picture of innocence, but such—a little—slut.

He cums with a shout, shooting all over her pussy and the bracket of her thighs. Another pulse of hot seed makes her cry out, and she makes an aborted gesture with her hands as if to touch herself, then thinks better of it.

Smart girl.

They're both panting heavily when he pulls away, his cock softening. He reaches between them to smear his cum into her skin, scooping it up and rubbing it over her pussy. He runs his hands over her front, which is damp with sweat and slightly sticky. Her eyes are glazed over.

"Soon, baby brat," he promises.

#

Weeks after that full moon, Chris comes to her room with an ornate handheld mirror. "Spread your legs, baby. I want you to see."

She immediately goes crimson. "I—I don't think I'm ready."

"Stéphanie." He gives her a stern look, one that she can no longer ignore. Sure enough, her legs fall open immediately so that she doesn't displease her daddy.

"That's my good girl," he praises, kissing the inside of her thigh. "You're absolutely stunning, sweetheart. Look."

And she does look, peeking at it through elegant, tapered fingers. Her mouth falls open. A hand creeps down to prod at the smooth, pink skin. "That... is that..."

"That's you, baby," he tells her. She gazes into the mirror wonderingly, her fingers drifting lower until they rest against her vulva. Her folds are full and hairless and the palest pink. She strokes her labia, and it quivers at the sensation. She spreads her folds, and they part to reveal her cute, pink hole. It looks impossibly tiny, sweet and delicate. His cock stiffens.

Just before her fingers dip into her pussy, she looks up at him, as though to ask for permission.

Such an obedient little girl. He nods his approval, and she pushes a finger in to the first knuckle. It comes out glossy with slick.

Chris feels his mouth start to water.

"Touch yourself here, baby," he whispers, moving her wet finger to her clit, teasingly drags it over the little nub.

"Oh!"

He chuckles, grabbing her hand and suckling the moisture off. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, daddy."

"It's mine now, you understand? No touching unless I give permission."

"Of course, daddy."

"And I brought a present for my beautiful girl," he croons. He taps wide, flat pink box on the tabletop. It's held shut with two silky black ribbons. "Why don't you try it on?"

"Yes, daddy." She scurries into the bathroom with the box.

When she steps out minutes later, he nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

The bra is baby blue, the color delicate against her pale skin, with an underwire for support. There never was much of anything to support before, but now the wire pushes her breasts up and together, creating a shadow of cleavage, and the fabric of the cups is translucent mesh, so that he can see the dusky rose of her nipples.

The panties too are edged with that same powder blue lace. The fabric over her crotch is see-through, such that when she gives him a shy spin, he can see the flawless curve of her ass. And when she stands on tiptoes and bends over slightly, he can see—

Her perfect, pink, juicy little cunt.

"Come here." His voice has gone husky.

Obediently, she comes to stand in front of him, and she looks—lush. Pure. Ripe for the picking.

He rubs his thumb across the jut of her hipbone, and instinctively, she straddles him, a knee coming up to bracket each of his muscular thighs.

"How do you like daddy's present?" His hand drops to her waist, glides down the edge of her underwear as though he's admiring the stitching.

"It's gorgeous."

"And how does it make you feel?"

"it makes me feel..." She bites her lip. "Beautiful. Sexy."

"Good girl." His voice drops an octave. "And what do good girls say when daddy gives them what they want?"

His fingers toy with the part of the seam that rests against her inner thigh. Her breath hitches. He gazes intently at her, and she fixates on a spot above his ear before daring to meet his eyes. His thumb strokes just on the outside of the seam, then slips under the elastic. They both know he's not just talking about lingerie anymore.

"Thank you, daddy." Her breathing stutters adorably.

"Good," he growls, then flips her onto her back. He yanks the flimsy fabric off and buries his face between her thighs.

She tastes wonderful. Sweet and clean, and with an aftertaste like the sea. She arches into his touch, gasping, and he licks a long, hot stripe up her sex.

She's starting to get wet already, so responsive to her daddy, and he feels his pants get a little tighter. He parts her folds with his thumbs and just looks at her, at her lush little pussy, admires his handiwork while she squirms beneath him, whining. Without hair, she looks so bare and young and vulnerable. She's completely exposed before him, and it makes saliva fill his mouth. The sensitive pink flesh glistens wetly, parting lewdly to reveal a perfect little nub, already flushing the colour of a dusky rose. He tweaks it with two fingers, then bends to lave it, until that little button hardens under his attention.

Beautiful.

She's panting heavily now, her pussy wet with his saliva and her body's natural lubrication. "Would you like to come, baby?" he purrs.

"Y-yes, please, daddy!"

"Well, because you asked so nicely," he coos, and then brings his face back to her dripping cunt.

He runs his lips over her tender folds, experiments with different strokes of the tongue—long, short, up, down; listening to her response to the varying patterns. He licks her with broad swipes of the flat of tongue, then swirls around her clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing until she's a quivering, mewling mess before him.

Then he brings his mouth to her clit and sucks, and at the same time slides two fingers in her (not too deep, barely past the second knuckle), and she screams as she climaxes.

He works her through her orgasm, humming in a self-satisfied sort of way, as she shudders beneath him.

"You look so pretty when you cum," he croons, before pulling his fingers out of her. She makes a weak noise of protest. Her legs are splayed out, the glistening pink flesh at their apex quivering. He wants his cock in it yesterday.

When her tremors fade away, he peels his clothes off and lifts her so that both of them are comfortably in the centre of the bed. When her tremors fade away, he peels his clothes off and lifts her so that both of them are comfortably in the centre of the bed. She sits up slightly and their mouths meet in a messy, blistering kiss. She moans at the taste of herself, and he licks into her mouth. He reaches behind her to unhook her bra, and squeezes the soft mounds of her tits.

He's so turned on, even more than he had ever been with his wife, bless her soul. His daughter is so unbearably sexy, spreading her thighs just for him. Her pussy oozes another gush of slick, and he palms his cock through his briefs, squeezing the base, then discards his underwear too.

"You ready, kitten?" He fists his cock in his hand, breathing heavily. Somehow, it appears larger than usual, flushed and hard and leaning slightly to the left. It's veined and girthy, and it makes her look so much smaller in comparison. It's hard and flushed and leaking pre-come, and he guides it to her hot core.

"Yes," she breathes, and he can tell she's starting to get turned on already, her body priming itself to take him. Her eyes are fever-bright, glazing over, and Chris suddenly places the scent drifting off her.

Ozone.

_Magic._

It's the Nemeton, making sure everything goes as planned after her transformation. He exhales hard, and says a silent prayer of thanks to a god he doesn't believe in that Deaton gave her a contraceptive implant, because there's no way he's using protection. His mind is suddenly flooded with the image of his daughter, gravid with his seed, her breasts heavy with milk. Getting her pregnant would be a wonderful way to keep her by his side. she would be the perfect mate. But he forces the thought away, though not before his cock twitches impossibly and makes a valiant attempt to become even harder.

He lowers himself over in an animalistic crouch, crushing their mouths together in a bruising kiss, and then pushes in.

She's so tight, so fucking tight. Her unused cunt sucks him in, and her inner walls are silky smooth. She gasps and squeezes her eyes shut at the new feeling, and he groans at the clutching wet heat of her. Her cunt clutches at him, squeezing as she acclimatises to the barrage of sensation.

"You can take it all for me, can't you?" he grits out with the effort of restraint.

And she does. There is a sense of surrender, of walls crumbling and falling down, of giving in. He pinches her nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it hardens. She tightens up, and it makes him groan.

"How do you feel?" he asks, urgent.

"Oh—_oh_."

"Good?"

"Yes!"

He huffs out a laugh, and starts to moving slowly, inching in a little deeper each time, the searing heat enveloping his cock. The magic flickers dimly around them, urging him on. _Go, mate, claim._ Eventually, he's completely entered her. He’s fully sheathed, and then he begins to thrust.

He drives into her, increasing in pace and intensity, until there is no sound in the room but her gasps and his moans and the sound of skin-on-skin. His cock slams into her, possessive and possessing. He twines a fist around her hair and pulls, and she arches her back, pressing her perfect little tits against him. He squeezes them with rough abandon. He made these, he made her. All of this belongs to him.

They ruck up the sheets, and the sound of his balls slapping her ass is obscene, filthy, delicious.

"Look at you, baby, taking me so well," he hisses. "You feel so good around me."

"Ah, daddy," she gasps. "I want your kn—" And then she stops, looking momentarily confused, and shakes her head as if dislodging an errant thought. Chris doesn't have time to dwell on it, lost to the fire between them.

"Baby, I'm going to cum in you, okay? I'm going to—uh, _ah._"

"Yes, cum in me, daddy," she babbles, "Fill me up with your—oh!"

He reaches between their bodies to thumb her clit, and they both tip over the edge together, him shouting as he drills in, as deep as he can, and her gasping as she feels him spill into her.

When he pulls out, there are a few rust-colored streaks on his cock. He wipes at the blood with his hand, curious, and realizes with a start that he just took his daughter's virginity.

She's his now, utterly and irrevocably.

He's gentle with her afterwards, kissing her and telling her how much he loves her.

#

Stéphanie loves her new body. She loves the economy of its size, how every movement it makes is graceful. She loves the way clothes fit the new body so well, how she looks so delicate and small next to her daddy. She loves how pretty she is. She's never been pretty before. She loves how the new body makes everything feel so right.

She also loves how every orgasm is a gradual, rolling tumble, waves of pleasure crashing against her shores as her daddy works his lips between her. He kisses her for hours, holding her legs open so that he can play with her clit, leaving her gasping and trembling every time.

The smell of an impending thunderstorm dissipates completely and never makes a reappearance. Evidently, the Nemeton feels it has done its job.

Chris has to agree. She has never seemed more settled, more sated. he knows without a doubt that she belongs entirely to him, mind, body and soul. He made her. He created her. She'll always belong to him.

Every time they make love in Stéphanie's new body is perfect. It's beyond perfect. Sometimes, like today, they kiss for ages, just taking things slowly, while he runs his big hands over her body, teasing and tickling and pinching.

Then, he growls, "You're ready," and in an instant he has his cock out and her knees hooked over his shoulders and just about bends her completely in half, and her new body is so flexible. So pretty and pliant and permissible.

He rucks her skirt up and pulls her panties to the side, and she's already getting wet.

"Please, daddy," she breathes.

"You're such a slut for me. Nothing but a needy little slut," he says, fond.

"I'm your needy little slut."

He smiles approvingly. He rubs his cockhead against her slit, getting them both nice and wet, while she twitches and tries to buck her hips into the pleasure. He pinches a nipple, and bends down to lave at it.

"Daddy, please."

"You want my big cock, baby girl?"

"Yes, yes!"

"What do we say?" he teases.

"Daddy, won't you please put your big cock in my little cunt? Please?" And she looks at him coyly through a black lace of lashes, in the manner that she knows he loves, and he groans savagely, and thrusts in.

He rocks into her slowly, an endlessly building pressure that sends sparks travelling up their spines and stars exploding behind their eyes.

#

He takes her many, many times after that, christening every single room of the house (and even some parts of the outdoors).

On the tennis courts, after a sweaty game that had started out slowly because she was getting used to her new body; suddenly he is behind her, kissing, one hand clasped around a budding breast and the other in her shorts. Her racket hangs forgotten in her hand.

In her library, impaled on his cock for an hour as she reads, rocking gently as the dust motes swirled in the air, the only movement a deep sigh and the flip of a page.

On the lip of the pool, where it is ever so easy so slip her bikini bottoms to the side and take her there, the water lapping at their thighs with every thrust.

She likes to be fucked in front of a mirror. He knows it turns her on, somehow, to see her new form being so thoroughly possessed. She gets just a bit wetter, moans a little louder, arches her back a little more. He thinks it's the shock and pleasure of seeing how beautiful she looks, flushed and aroused. Her mouth parted in a moan, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. Debauched. Her nipples standing out from her chest, two little hard points that he pinches, his hands roaming over her smooth, tanned skin. How perfectly they fit, how right they look together. His body is ropey with muscle and dwarfs hers from behind, his hips drilling roughly into her. He grips her throat just this side of too tight, leaves bruises on her hips. His perfect little slut.

He becomes a little obsessed with keeping his cum in his daughter. It manifests as a preference for leaving his cock in her, even after he has orgasmed. He suspects it's a side effect from the ritual; maybe it has something to do with the images in the druid book, the ones with the soon-to-be-woman and her Alpha's engorged member. It doesn't matter. His cock pulses weakly through his orgasm, spurting in her, and he remains glued to her side until he softens.

When he slips out, he fumbles for the little silicone dildo with the wide base, and pushes it into her before any of his semen can escape. He wants her filled up with his seed. 

She's perfect for him, always warm and wet and ready. But still so tight. Every single time is like the first time.

#

Chris is submerged chest-deep in crystalline water next to his little girl. She's perched prettily on the edge of the pool in a tiny black bikini, more risqué than he would usually allow for the way that the hand-slashed bikini top is so revealing. Before the ritual she would have worn something with more padding, but now that she's filling out her bras so nicely, she seems to prefer pieces with thinner fabrics, allowing tempting flashes of bare skin. The striking bikini top presses against her chest, pushing her tits together to emphasize her femininity. His hand rests possessively on his baby girl's knee as she kicks playfully, and water splashes at him.

Chris sips at his glass of white wine, and the cool liquid is refreshing, tickles his throat. He let his daughter have a taste, and when she liked it, he gave her the whole glass. Now she's listing slightly, swaying into him. Her glass is mostly empty and tipping steadily to one side. She leans back on her palms and rests a thigh on his shoulder, and giggles when he nips it.

Later he'll fuck her again, now that he's got her feeling so languid and pliable.

"Oh," she says, sounding suddenly forlorn. "I didn't get to see anyone while I was at Beacon Hills."

His hands still where they're caressing her thighs. "Who did you want to see, baby girl?"

He can see her thinking hard, searching for an answer that won't upset him. She knows better than to mention any boys, so even her best friend Scott is out.

"Lydia," she finally answers.

Oh, he remembers Lydia. A feisty redheaded girl. She had been best friends with his first daughter too, and it makes complete sense for Stéphanie to want to see her. He makes a split-second decision.

"How about we ask Lydia to visit us over summer break, honey?" he coos, and enjoys the way her eyes widen, and her mouth falls open in shocked pleasure.

"Really?"

"Yes, baby."

"Oh, thank you, daddy! Thank you so much!" She smooches him all over his face and leaps out of the pool to do a happy little dance. Chris can't help but laugh at her twirling around and clapping her hands in sheer, unadulterated glee. In the sunlight, her eyes are golden.

She flings herself back onto her water and cuddles right up to his side, wrapping her legs around him so that he can lift her easily. They kiss, under the hot afternoon sun and in the cool refuge of the pool. Her mouth tastes of wine and girl and chlorine, and it is perfect.

#


End file.
